Page 11 of The Venice Murders (Flora Steele Mystery #11)

11

She thought over Jack’s comment as she waited with him at St Mark’s for the Cipriani launch to appear at the quayside. He was right, of course, they were right in the middle of something, but what, exactly, remained a mystery. The story had begun with a man falling to his death in the canal – no, it had really begun with that quarrel they’d witnessed at La Zucca – then close on the heels of Franco’s death, they’d learned a valuable painting was missing from a local church and a priest’s housekeeper had vanished into thin air. Finally, Bianca had appeared on the scene, a girl Flora had barely known in Abbeymead, now in Venice and coping with a failed engagement and a father furious with what had happened. How did these disparate events, these different people, connect? It was fine to be in the middle of something but only if you had the faintest clue as to what. Were they looking at a robbery? A kidnap? A murder? Or could all these events be explained in other ways?

They had clambered aboard the hotel launch and were halfway across the Giudecca Canal when she felt a certainty as to what they should do. Touching Jack’s arm to gain his attention, she said, ‘We should take a boat ride with Piero Benetti.’

‘Because?’

‘He must have known Franco Massi fairly well – his daughter was engaged to the man and there must have been times when Benetti talked to him. Shared meals with him, perhaps. If Franco ever spoke of Asolo, Benetti might remember and be able to tell us more than his daughter is willing to say.’

‘According to the hotel reception, Franco, before he died, wasn’t exactly flavour of the month with the man once destined to be his father-in-law. So, is Benetti likely to say anything useful? And then there’s the restaurant and its lethal inhabitants. Don’t we have enough on our hands with them?’

They were sailing past the pink walls of the Cipriani to stop at its landing stage before Flora spoke again. ‘I think we should go back to the beginning.’ She sounded certain. ‘To Franco. He was the man who died. We should start with him and with the people who knew him, and hope the pieces will fall into place. And the boat trip wouldn’t be wasted – we could ask Benetti to take us to one of the islands. I’ve seen pictures of a place I’d love to visit. It has streets of beautifully coloured houses.’

‘That will be Burano.’

‘Then let’s go there. Make it part of our sightseeing. I can ask the Cipriani to ring Benetti and book the trip for us.’

‘They’ll warn you off again,’ he said, glumly. ‘And probably with good reason.’

But when they strolled into the hotel, it was the younger receptionist who was behind the desk, his senior colleague evidently off duty today.

‘Piero Benetti?’ His lips pursed a little. ‘Ah, yes, signora, you showed Signor Trentino his business card.’

Signor Trentino was evidently the head receptionist.

‘I know he wasn’t too happy with the idea but we’d like to go ahead,’ Flora said, adopting a confident air.

‘If you are sure, signora.’ He looked questioningly at Jack, standing to one side. Her husband gave a resigned nod. ‘Benetti has a reputation for being a man of short temper,’ the receptionist counselled. ‘He can be violent at times, I’ve seen it myself. And certainly he threatened Franco Massi.’

‘I hardly think he’ll turn violent on a trip to Burano, do you?’ Jack spoke in an amused voice. ‘A sightseeing trip,’ he explained, ‘Benetti’s bread and butter, I would have thought.’

‘Of course. Of course. I will telephone. For tomorrow?’

It had needed Jack’s acquiescence, Flora fumed, to get things moving. Would there ever be a time when a woman was considered sensible enough to make her own decisions?

Inwardly ruffled Flora may have been, but she was glad they were to meet the hot-tempered Benetti. The idea that Franco’s murder might have nothing to do with Asolo was one she couldn’t lose entirely. And talking to Benetti could be a step in that direction. If, by chance, Franco had confided any trouble he was facing –asked Benetti for advice, maybe –Asolo might have featured in their conversation, but equally it might not. Franco could have feared something else, feared someone else.

Jack appeared less confident of the trip’s success. ‘I shouldn’t put too much hope in discovering anything monumental,’ he cautioned, as they brushed their teeth side by side that night. ‘Separate basins, Jack,’ Flora had exclaimed when they’d walked into the bathroom for the first time, a space almost as large as her cottage sitting room.

‘Maybe and maybe not.’ She shook the toothbrush free of water. ‘But we’ll still have a splendid day out.’

Piero Benetti was at the Cipriani landing stage at ten the next morning. Flora could immediately see the resemblance to his daughter and wondered if she should mention they had met Bianca.

‘You have a beautiful boat,’ Jack said, helping her to a seat at the stern. ‘A beautiful name, too, the Mirabelle . Is it new?’

Flora was no judge of boats but, even to her untutored eye, the vessel was special: its polished mahogany deep and rich, its brass fittings gleaming, and a new and unblemished flag flying at the prow. The outside seats they chose were comfortably upholstered, their figured cotton perfect, she decided, for a fancy pair of curtains.

‘Old taxi finished,’ Benetti said, his voice colourless. ‘Big crash.’

That wasn’t good to hear. Flora had managed to conquer her fear of water sufficiently to travel on boats – ever since coming to Venice she’d been forced to jump on and off them – but a dangerous collision was something else.

‘Stupid tourist,’ Piero announced.

Despite stupid tourists, business must be very good, she assumed, to afford to replace an old water taxi with a boat such as this.

‘Was Bianca with you when the accident happened?’ she asked, hoping to begin the conversation she was after.

‘Bianca, no. She work all day. You know my daughter?’

‘We met her a few days ago.’ Perhaps best not to mention Sussex just now. ‘She was the one who gave us your card. We thought of you as soon as we decided to take a trip to Burano.’

‘She is good girl. Sometimes.’

‘Only sometimes? Does she give you trouble?’

He gave a long sigh. ‘ Bambini! ’ Then abruptly turned his back on them to rev the boat’s engine and send the Mirabelle racing into the wide-open expanse of the lagoon.

End of conversation, she thought wryly, closing her eyes and lying back in her seat for the sun to smother her in its warmth.

‘Sleepy?’ Jack leaned across and stroked her cheek with a finger.

‘A bit,’ she admitted. Their time in Venice was proving just a little too exciting and, for the last two nights, she hadn’t slept well. ‘But I’ll try to keep awake!’

‘There’ll be time enough for you to doze. We won’t be at the island for at least another half an hour.’

She snuggled into his body, reassuringly solid, feeling the breeze on her face and in her hair, and hearing the swish of the waters as they cut a passage towards Burano. No sleep, but gradually a dreamlike state, in which, joyously, her mind was emptied of every concern that had intruded into their holiday.

It was Jack putting his hand on her knee that brought her out of the dream. ‘We’ve arrived,’ he said in her ear.

Flora opened her eyes, surprised that somehow the lagoon had disappeared and in its place was a narrow canal where they were berthed alongside a line of small boats.

‘Let’s take a look.’

He pulled her to her feet and together they walked to the boat’s rail, gazing across at the houses clustered around the harbour. Flora’s first impression was of colour. Bright, dazzling colour – pink, orange, turquoise, yellow, white – an extraordinary rainbow that stretched as far as her eye could see.

‘Is it what you expected?’

‘I’ve seen a picture of the island, but the reality is absolutely stunning.’ She continued to stare at the scene in front of her. ‘It’s a Fauvist painting brought to life! Is there a reason for the colours, do you know?’

‘My guidebook mentions a legend that the fishermen of Burano painted their homes the same colour as their boats, so that if they faced disaster at sea the boat’s colour would tell people at which door to knock and relay the sad news. I’ve no idea how true that is. It could be one of those tales. But time to explore the painting?’

Leaving Flora to collect her sunhat and handbag, Jack arranged with Piero the time they would return. While she had dozed, he’d watched a silent Benetti at work. A good sailor, he reckoned, but one with a short fuse. If the wheel failed to respond quickly enough to his touch, he jerked at it. If an instrument didn’t register what he expected, it was banged with a closed knuckle. And when another one of the many boats on the lagoon came too close, there were subdued curses. Not a man to cross, Jack decided.

Reaching for Flora’s hand, he started down the gangway and together they began a stroll up the main street, both of them taking delight in the brightly hued houses. Soon they were competing with each other to find as many different colours as they could. The balconies, they noticed, were almost as brilliant as the buildings themselves, filled with flowers and attached to nearly every house they passed.

‘I can see why artists might come here,’ Flora said. ‘The island must be an inspiration – it’s a fantasy of colour.’

‘It became really popular after the First War, but I read somewhere that Leonardo da Vinci discovered Burano centuries before, though I’m not sure I believe it.’

‘The island is quite isolated,’ she said thoughtfully. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live here in winter.’

‘Tough, I think, and likely to get tougher if the waters continue to rise. This place and the other islands, and Venice itself, could be under threat and not that far into the future.’

‘Will the tourists still come? I guess it’s tourism that earns the island its money.’

‘They’ll come as long as they can, I imagine, but it’s probably fishing that brings in more. At breakfast the other day – when you’d gone on your mission to find a handkerchief! – the waiter was telling me the seafood here is magnificent and a fraction of the price you pay in Venice. We’ll make sure we have a decent lunch, so look out for a likely restaurant.’

They had come on this trip specifically for the chance to talk to Piero Benetti but, as the hours slipped by and they explored further into the island, their mission was almost forgotten: a coffee in the colourful square of Piazza Baldassare Galuppi, a visit to the church with its beautiful old statues and mosaics, and several astonished minutes gazing at the bell tower which leant at such a crazy angle it should rightly have fallen down years ago. It seemed that the simple enjoyment of sauntering, hand in hand, through eye-catching streets had pushed them to relax in a way they hadn’t since they’d first come to Italy.

‘I’d like to buy a few souvenirs before we leave,’ Flora said, as they began to retrace their steps along the main road. ‘I thought maybe some lace – as we’ve walked, I’ve been noticing the window displays. I’d love to take something back for Alice. Perhaps for Kate as well, if it’s not too old-fashioned.’

When Jack’s eye was caught by a beautifully dressed shop window they were passing, he pulled her over to take a look. ‘What about this place? Do you see anything you like?’

Flora stared through the glass. ‘Plenty,’ she said, fixing her gaze on a trio of lace sunshades sitting proudly on a pedestal. ‘Those are beautiful! Are they handmade, do you think?’

‘Almost certainly. Burano exports lace all over the world.’

She pressed her face to the window, taking in every curve and stitch of the three sunshades. ‘They really are exquisite.’

‘Let’s go in. I can’t imagine Alice using a sunshade, but you might see something else you like.’

‘All too possible, I’m afraid, and all of it expensive.’

Nevertheless, she followed him inside, wandering slowly past shelves filled to the brim with bales of differently patterned lace. Flora admired everything she saw: intricately worked tablecloths, runners and napkins to match, fans and collars, and fabulously worked blouses.

The shopkeeper came forward, a hopeful expression on his face. ‘You would like to try?’ He unhooked one of the blouses from its rack.

‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly, fearful of the cost.

‘It is handmade. Needle lace,’ the man explained. ‘Very difficult work – each woman makes only one stitch that is her own, so the garment must be passed from one to the other.’

‘It’s quite beautiful, I can see, but…this is what I’d like.’

Jack saw her point to a case of lace bookmarks, small and delicate. One of them depicted the Madonna and child and she swooped on it. ‘This is lovely. And so unusual. And these – the one of the lagoon and there’s one of the Doge’s palace. They will be perfect for my friends. Thank you.’

Once the shopkeeper had wrapped the small presents in coloured tissue and tied them with a satin ribbon, he presented the parcel to her with a solemn handshake. ‘If you are interested in Burano lace, signora, there is a school of lace not far from here. You may visit and watch the women at work.’

‘I’d love that!’ She turned to Jack, her face bright with anticipation. ‘Can we go?’

He looked at his watch. ‘If we do, we’ll run out of time. Or we’d have to miss lunch.’

‘And that would be a tragedy,’ she said teasingly.

As it happened, Flora was delighted they hadn’t missed lunch. By dint of turning off the main street and into a small calle , they found a restaurant patronised by local people and with meals at what appeared a bargain price. Their surroundings might have been basic but the food they ate was anything but. A first dish, a risotto with fish and asparagus, proved one of the tastiest Flora had so far eaten, followed by a secondo of branzino al forno with a fresh salad dressed in oil, honey and oregano. A jug of the local white wine appeared and soon disappeared. When it came to dessert, though, she knew her limits.

‘Pudding?’ Jack asked, after the waiter had cleared their plates.

‘Not in a million years.’ She was very glad she had worn a dress with a forgiving waistline.

‘The cannoli look pretty good,’ he tempted.

‘I’ll be leaving you to find out!’

He looked again at his watch. ‘Maybe not. Our captain doesn’t appear the most patient of men. We’d better not be late for him.’

‘Although…’ he said, as they walked back into the street, ‘there’s just enough time for my shopping.’

Surprised, Flora watched him race across the nearby bridge to the walkway on the other side of the small canal, then race back, a posy of white freesias in his hand.

‘For you, signora.’ A solemn bow accompanied the flowers. ‘To celebrate a wonderful day!’

Flora threw her arms around him, dangerously close to crushing the flowers, and, to the delight of an elderly passer-by, kissed him thoroughly.

‘Now we must run,’ he warned, disentangling himself. ‘Or we’ll be in trouble.’

Piero Benetti was waiting for them on the quayside and, though he wasn’t exactly scowling, neither was he full of joy. Sensing that she couldn’t make him more despondent than he was already, Flora decided to have the conversation she’d been wanting since they’d first boarded the Mirabelle .

Laying the posy carefully to one side, she walked unsteadily over to the man at the wheel.

‘Will you be seeing Bianca this evening?’ she began.

‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘Why you want to know?’

‘Only to pass on our good wishes. She seemed a little upset when we met her the other day. She told me there had been a problem – with her fiancé.’

‘That man.’ He muttered something inaudible and probably highly offensive.

‘You didn’t like Franco Massi?’ It was a fairly good guess.

‘Like him? Una merda! ’

Jack’s eyebrows rose. It was offensive.

‘He is all smart, the big man one day. He make promise, he take money, but then…pah!’ He threw his hands in the air.

Money? What money? Flora was desperate to ask but knew that, if she did, Benetti would stop talking. Instead, she said, ‘Do you know why Franco changed his mind?’

‘Why he left my bella Bianca? For his family, he say. For his mother, his father, his brother. Spazzatura! ’ There was a pause while he glared ahead, silently shaking his head from side to side. ‘A bad day she go to England.’

‘She met Franco in England?’

‘No, no. She met here. Venezia. He goes to the Minerva, this is hotel where she work.’

‘And he met Bianca there?’

There was another inaudible mutter.

‘I’m not surprised they became friends,’ Flora said, but garnered no response. ‘They’d have so much to talk about,’ she persevered. ‘Both of them having worked in England.’

‘Bianca, it is bad she go there. England very bad. It mean trouble.’

‘Really? But it must have been exciting for her to work abroad for the first time. And it was in Venice that she met Franco.’

‘It give her bad idea,’ he growled, and without another word thrust the tiller roughly forward, sending the Mirabelle shooting across the lagoon.